


my heart is yours

by killingangels



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, its christmas and malum are in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25842520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killingangels/pseuds/killingangels
Summary: it’s christmas, and michael and calum are in love.
Relationships: Michael Clifford/Calum Hood
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	my heart is yours

As much as Michael loves touring, loves the hustle and buzz of each new city they get to experience, adores travelling and performing every night to new faces, he has to admit to himself that nowhere will top his childhood home. 

It’s Christmas Eve, and Michael’s sat, comfortable between his parents, all three of them dressed in disgusting Christmas t-shirts, with Elf playing on the TV and a plate of messily iced Christmas cookies balanced precariously between them. In the corner of the room, their Christmas tree twinkles softly, colours flickering, casting dancing lights across the entire room. 

“I just don’t understand,” his mum starts, mouth full of cookie, “Why Buddy the Elf doesn’t realise he's different. I mean, he’s like, six foot.” 

Michael rolls his eyes. They have this conversation every year, so often that it might as well be its own tradition by now, but his dad will still jump in to defend Buddy’s honour. 

He listens on as his parents descend into fond bickering, sips his iced lemonade and smiles when the doorbell rings, six in the evening, every year. This part was a Christmas tradition that he’d never get tired of. 

The sun’s still high in the sky when he answers the door, and Calum’s carrying a tub of ice cream, just like he does every year, wearing a shirt with an obnoxiously bright Chiristmas tree embroidered on it and a metallic silver bow on his forehead. Michael grabs his hand to drag him in, picking the bow off of his head, and his parents yell their greetings mid argument. 

“I’m your early Christmas present,” Calum tells him, and Michael scrunches his nose up at the familiar joke, still sticking the bow on the kitchen door anyway. 

“What’re we making today, then, chef?” Calum asks as he dumps the ice cream in the freezer, like he does every year, the corners of his mouth twitching. Michael kisses him in reply, and that’s a new tradition.

Calum’s lips are as soft as they always are, and he’s gentle as he cradles Michael’s face between both of his palms. His eyes are sparkling as they draw back. 

“Buffet,” Michael will tell him, tapping the syllables out with their clasped hands on the worktop. 

“Special dip?” they say together, and Calum will open the fridge with his spare hand, letting Michael stretch as he reaches for a saucepan without letting go of their hands. 

Inevitably, their hands will break, and Michael will be stirring the sauce when Calum’s warm touch sneaks around his waist, chin hooked over his shoulder, and Michael will smile into the steam. 

“Slowly,” Calum will tell him, hot breath making the thin skin of his neck tingle. He places his hand further up the wooden spoon, guiding it in the opposite direction, inhaling. 

“Yes chef,” Michael jokes, and pouts to no one in particular when Calum moves away to adjust the tiny radio that Daryl likes to tell them is older than Michael himself to play Snow is Falling again. 

“We should make a Christmas song,” Calum has told Michael every year since they’ve become known, and every year Michael will frown at the setting sun and tell him that, “Calum, everyone else wants to hear about the snow, not the sand.” 

And it’ll be Calum to serve their meal, their thighs pressed close together as they eat. Karen will thank Calum for coming, and Calum will flutter his eyelashes and take another bite of his food. 

They’ll leave the dishes, and it’ll be Michael to drag Calum outside to the beach, watching as fireworks light up the greying sky and the cool sand slips between their toes. 

Michael will watch Calum’s face light up in something akin to pure joy, smile spreading across his cheeks until he practically glows from the force of it. He’ll watch as his eyes crinkle and cheeks turn pink from Michael’s gaze, and then they’re both shrieking into the night air, chasing one another down the dunes to the damp, firm sand near the shore. 

And Calum rests his head on Michael’s shoulder, closing his eyes when Michael drops the tiniest kiss into his curls, and Michael knows that he’s in love. He doesn't say it. He doesn't have to. 

“Hey, Michael?” Calum asks, a moment later, eyelashes brushing the thin cotton of Michael’s shirt. 

Michael hums in response, closing his eyes and letting the sky blur into colours and shapes and Calum. 

“I think I love you,” he says. And it feels right. 

(They sleep right where they're sat, and wake up to the sun smearing colours into the sky.)


End file.
